We had hiked a lot that day, but from our window, the beach beckoned. Everyone and their dog was out. Who could resist the low tide, and the lovely golden light before sunset? We went out. The gulls dove around us, scooping up small shells from the beach and dropping them on the rocks to crack them, sometimes having to try it a second or third time. We found ourselves caught up in  watching them. 

One gull ambitiously attempted to fly off with two abalones connected by and encrusted with barnacles. He did not make it more than an inch or two into the air with this heavy load and eventually abandoned his find and began to search elsewhere for food. S decided to make an easier meal for the gulls, and taking a large stone, broke open the shells revealing the orange flesh. Then we drew back to watch.  

Soon another gull had found the feast and started scooping out and eating the abalone meat, enjoying himself so much that it was hard not to be vicariously satisfied. Gulls have few peaceful meals since other gulls are quick to steal whatever food they can from their more successful peers. I've also seen larger, older gulls easily chase off younger gulls. Our gull was very big. It had virtually no gray feathers, signifying that it was also fairly old. I'm trying to recall if it still had some small gray spot. Other gulls did begin to show interest in the food and a few came over and managed to snatch a little bit. 

Our gull began to use his begging call, lowering his head and emitting a piteous cry as if he were a young chick, all the while devouring more of the feast that had been laid open for him. This begging call was a sound we knew well from having watched two gull parents raise their chicks on a roof top right across from our window. I've heard that gulls use begging calls for purposes other than extracting food from their parents, but I was nonetheless intrigued with this adult gull's specific use of the call. His technique did seem effective for what I presume to be his purpose. Although a couple of other gulls got little bits of food,  he was able to keep eating with relatively little interference. 

Not "our gull" but an example of a young gull, its feathers still gray

 

 

The Sign of the Rock Pigeon

Yesterday S and I had a lovely lunchtime walk, the weather cool, but sunny. Suddenly S spoke:

“That guy had a pigeon sitting on his head,” he said. 

“What?” I hadn’t seen it.

“Go back and look.” 

So I did. A man stood in his yard, holding a mug of coffee. He wore a t-shirt, shorts, and a baseball cap. On that baseball cap sat a pigeon. Since I had come back to gawk at the man, I felt I should also make conversation. “Is that your friend?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. And I began to learn more of his story. He said he had found the pigeon young—that its parents didn’t want it because of its deformed foot and so he took it home to care for it. He said that inside they had a very large cage and that his wife covered up at night and opened up in the morning. He said they also try to keep it away from the bearded dragon’s cage. 

At one point the man coaxed the pigeon off of his head and “Sammy Lou” began to fly—toward me in fact. I held still wondering if he might land on my head. I was not disappointed. I asked S to get a picture. I could feel that my head was a little slippery for Sammy Lou—after all, he only had one foot with claws on it. Eventually he slid down far enough that he decided to fly back to the man's head. 

As this was happening, a woman walking a dog passed by, staring and commenting on the aberrant pigeon behavior. I’m pretty sure she didn’t want a bird on her head. S also said he was glad that the pigeon hadn't landed on his head.

It was only later, as we were walking home that it occurred to me that if Sammy Lou had sat on my head, he might have also pooped on my head, and I lifted a hand to check. Sure enough. I wiped my hand off on the bark of a nearby tree and when I got home, showered and changed my clothes. 

Soaring over Sauvie

I am yet a beginning birder.
I see common birds soaring over Sauvie Island.
And get giddy and delighted.
Someday, I will spot the rare birds.

















But today, I spin on my heels in the grey sand, on the banks of the Columbia to see a red-tail hawk appear above me.
From nowhere.

On a day where the pale disc of the sun was playing hide and seek with the clouds and winning.
I had been looking at the far away cormorants perched on a submerged tree.
I had seen a bird dive and bob in the water and fly way.
A Osprey or a Tern?
Hard to tell through my binoculars.


It spirals languidly.
The path traced is like an uncoiled spring- stretched lengthwise.

Some of the turns are big.

Some overlapping.
Like a twisted helix headed downstream, but in no hurry.
Perhaps tired of its rodent fare, is it trying to fish?
Far away from its compatriots hanging out by the field,
Half a dozen of them visible on each side of the road- hopping on the ground like crows.

I hear trains in the distance.
Across the Columbia.
Carting two by fours and crude.
And hear traffic too.

Unh. Unh. Unhkrkkh. Unhrrkooo.
Air being expelled through vocal cords sitting in a slender neck
In the opposite direction to the direction of flight.
Silhouettes of C's and U's flying towards me.
From another state across the river.
One flock veers to my right. Too far for my telephoto lens.
Another veers to my left.
Necks extended.
These are not herons.
I snap a few pictures with one eye shut.
I lower my camera.
And peer with both my eyes through the binoculars.
I spot the red on their head, and my elated vocal chords concur- Sandhill Cranes.

I ponder about long necks.
About slender bodies and long stilts for wading.
And stockier bodies, and webbed feet for swimming.
And ponder about insulation and the arctic cold.

What is the difference between the tundra swans and the trumpeter swans?
I look at the pictures in the guidebook when I get home and cannot make up my mind?
If only there had been an expert to tell me which was which.
Can birds be memorized like multiplication tables?
Some people do it with seemingly effortless ease.
Do I need to mug these things up?
To tell the difference?
I saw a flock of swans in flight that soared above the flat former floodplain fields?
What if I am happy with less information?
With watching the wonder of flight, and pondering about evolution
Without going into the details about which exact bird it was.
Does detail take away the joy, or does it add to it?
Is it incidental or is the main course?
Does one slog for 10,000 hours or should it come effortlessly?

Canada geese in formation.

I see them nearly everyday.

But, I am happy to see them.

Flying overhead in the largest flocks.

They are still rarer than the flocks of cars flooding our streets.

Not a bunch of four ducks fluttering overhead with fast wing beats.

But a familial bunch with strong family values.

Even if I know that they are supposedly the resident evils who wander from one pond to another.

For truly, is it them that are overpopulated or is it us humans?

I was stopped by the road.
Having snapped up closeups of golden crown sparrows.
On a branch nearby.
Bathing in a puddle by the side of the road.
Having snapped the assiduous downy woodpecker, who methodically clambered up the branch of each tree on the road.
And did not fly away from me, even when it was 6 feet away.
Having snapped up a red-tail hawk calmly waiting on a branch.

When you flew in, my dear kestrel.
I saw your shape gliding in.
Not a robin - I thought.
You flew below the hawk on the branch straight towards me.
Silently like an owl.
And then veered to the right and disappeared into a forest of bare winter branches.
The only shot I got was out of focus, imperfect, unlike the others- but it was yet beautiful.
I snared you in flight- unlike the others who were sitting on a branch.
They were bipeds, rooted to the ground.
Sans movement.
I wish I were soaring over Sauvie too!

Strategies

Chapter 1: Dreariness

When it rains in Portland it's hard not to feel trapped. Those misty little drops that I hear pattering on the ivy outside my window remind me of the coldness, grayness that seem like a wall between me and enjoying my life. I think of how soggy my coat will get, and my pants. 

Chapter 2: Clutter

This morning I was reading The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. It is the second book related to decluttering that has come into my life recently. The first was The Organized Mind, by Daniel Levitin. Sugata and I have gotten rid of more than a carload of stuff and have completely organized the kitchen, but as I look across my room, there is still much more to go and it has been lying there most of the week. I'm a little disheartened, and it's still raining outside my window.

Chapter 3: Joy

The principle for which Marie Kondo bases her decluttering strategies is to get rid of everything that doesn't spark joy in you.

Chapter 4: The Museum

A few minutes of searching on the internet for something to do turned up the C. C. Stern Type Foundry Museum, open every third Saturday of the month. At first I could only imagine a room full of machines I couldn't understand. I've learned not to trust my initial feelings about an activity, especially when they have been dampened by rain.

This museum was a working museum. Half a dozen or more people tinkered with molten metal and monotype and linotype machines.  We began by watching a demonstration of hand-casting. With this technique, those who were good at it could get up to six letters per minute. 

At the letter-press station I learned what it really meant to "quoin a phrase," and to "mind your p's and q's."

Impressed by the information and thinking of various writing and printing technologies that have been developed over a huge span of time, I thought of how much fun it would be to research and write about this history.

Two to Three Thousand

We live in the third millennium. Common Era.
Our fortunate fossil fuel finds from the last millennium are still powering us.
In the USA, if you are poor you ride the bus.
You wait in the rain for the bus.
You smoke second-hand smoke.
From people. From highways and trucks and cars.
You wear an oversized overcoat and huddle the best you can.
And twist your head to the left, gazing longingly over your left shoulder.
Your ears try to compete with your eyes.
Will they discern the diesel drone before retinal cells spot the square social sedan?

You wait for the bus to come.
You wait for the bus to drop people off.
At your stop.
And at every stop.
You spend more time, but you have no choice.
At least you outsourced the driving.
Your transporter has the most unhealthy occupation.


They have the technology to build a bus-shelter.
They have the technology to do a lot things.
Alas! The catch is that money determines what gets built.
Technology is not the limitation.

There are plenty of cars for sale from 2000 to 3000.
Some just a little below 2000, and some just above 3000.
Some will be sold by people wanting to buy the newest car.
Others will exchange their trusted old steed, now tottering, for a reliable new car.
These cars will wait under the open sky for new owners for a last ride before the junkyard.

Others sell you a transportation dream.
Of elegant clothes on a fashionable two-wheeler.
In a swanky showroom.
So that you do not have to ride the bus.
All for two to three thousand.

A Bathing Song

It is a normal day.

Yes there are icicles on branches.

But, the water is flowing.

Clean water cascading down Balch Gulch.

A milky silky tumble over smooth rocks every twenty feet.

In a valley where the sun does not hit the bottom.

Where there are ferns aplenty 

And unsalvaged dead logs criss-crossing the stream.

Rotting into mushrooms and insects.

For me to feed.

Hillsides being restored by the City of Portland with native plants.

Signs telling literate biped apes to keep away.

Passing by the Audubon Sanctuary where there is a feeder for my winged companions.

I do not care for the cascades.
Or for the noisy pack of the varied thrushes.
I like my spot above the tumble.
Water clean and clear.
A small pool with water neither too still nor swift.
For me to douse the louse.

How long does a bridge live?

 

[From: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/c0/Shahrestan_bridge.JPG/1280px-Shahrestan_bridge.JPG ]



Third to Seventh Century, Common Era. Built.
Shahrestan, on the Zayandeh River in Isfahan.
Stan- that part is familiar. Is it not? Stan is state.
Kazakhstan. Uzbekistan. Turkmenistan. Kyrgyzstan. Tajikistan.Afghanistan. Pakistan. Portstan.
Shahr- means city.
City State Bridge.
In Persian.
Renovated again in the tenth and eleventh century in the Common Era.
Which still exists today!

And there is the Thurman Street Bridge.
Officially, the Balch Gulch Bridge.
Built in 1905.
It carried streetcar tracks for decades.
The wooden sidewalk for walkers lost its iron-friend.
The War on Trams was won.
Cars. Cars. Cars.
The lonely bus 15 in lieu of the rambling streetcars.

In summer, I saw your naked skeleton.
Looking fragile. Like a grandparent.
I wondered if you would be melted in a scrap yard.
I did not believe them when they said they would keep you and replace the top.
Strengthen you.
Put on a new surface.
Like people did in Isfahan.
But I was wrong.
I pray that you live for a hundred more years.
What about a thousand?

"Built in 1905.
Rehabilitated 2014.
City of Portland."
- says the plaque.

So this is a city-state bridge. On the Balch Creek which flows to the Willamette
And then we have the county-state bridges. On the Willamette which flows to the Columbia.
And then we have the interstate bridge. On the Columbia which flows to the Ocean.

They "rehabilitated" the City-State Bridge.
What about the others?
Do we demolish and build anew?

Or we do we add a stanza to the mantra.
Reduce.
Reuse.
Rehabilitate.
Recycle.






Balch Gulch Bridge.
Back in Operation in Nov 2014.
For people and buses and cars.
Sans streetcars.

Look Carefully.
At the pedestrian path on either side of the bridge.
The anti-skid grooves.
Not of wood. Not Slippery.
Of Metal.
With holes to let the water drain.
All designed on a computer.
For people to walk on.